Worth Dying For (Worth It Book 8) Read online

  WORTH DYING FOR

  WORTH IT: BOOK 8

  PETER STYLES

  CONTENTS

  Hi there!

  1. Oliver

  2. Quinn

  3. Oliver

  4. Quinn

  5. Oliver

  6. Quinn

  7. Oliver

  8. Quinn

  9. Oliver

  10. Quinn

  11. Oliver

  12. Quinn

  13. Oliver

  14. Quinn

  15. Oliver

  16. Quinn

  17. Oliver

  18. Quinn

  19. Oliver

  Epilogue

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  1

  Oliver

  “Hope you’re hungry, ‘cause I made enough to feed all of Worthington. Twice.”

  I tore my eyes away from the countryside as Nico set a plate down in front of me. It was the largest plate they had, he told me, before he plopped down into his porch chair, balancing a plate on his leg while his hands were busy opening a beer. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” I heard Landon’s voice from the door, and when I looked into the house, he was there, smiling and extending a beer out to me. “You still drink, right?”

  “It was prison, Landon,” Nico interrupted. “Not AA.”

  Landon watched me take a sip before sitting down next to Nico. Their chairs were placed close to one another, and they shared a private glance before digging in.

  “Oh, holy shit,” I sighed, about three seconds after taking a bite myself, the meat practically melting in my mouth. I started taking my forkfuls just a bit faster. “Nico, you made this?”

  “Pernil relleno de Moros y Cristianos,” Nico said, pointing with his fork and looking pretty proud of himself. “Good, right? What do you think of it, tío?”

  I had to admit it, the food tasted amazing—pork shoulder cooked in orange juice and spices, filled with rice and beans; it sure as hell beat prison food.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I hummed; he was cocky. I waved my hand at him, relaxing into the canvas back of my chair. “Tastes just like mama used to make.”

  It wasn’t a lie. This shit really did taste just like my mother used to make, right down to how she would cook the rice. I told myself to ask for the recipe later as Nico launched into conversation. We all laughed and talked easily, the radio playing music softly in the background. The whole thing felt like a dream.

  It was hard sometimes to believe I was really out of prison; that there really was some kind of justice in the universe, and that I had been proven rightfully innocent.

  We kept the conversation away from my time in the pen, which I appreciated. It wasn’t exactly something I was eager to relive. Normalcy, I thought. I just want to get back to that. We talked about some of the people in town, we reminisced about Cuba and teenage years, both Landon and I picking on Nico as fiancé and uncle were wont to do. We talked about their engagement.

  I glanced at the rings on their fingers; my nephew was getting married. That I’d be around to see it was almost surreal.

  When the sun finally got around to setting, I had drifted away from the conversation, distracted by its bright light and many colors. I hadn’t seen it for ages. Years spent staring at the broad side of a dusty concrete wall really showed me how much I took shit like this for granted. I could smell the fresh air. I could feel the last bits of sunlight warming my dark skin. I could hear crickets and radio static.

  Freedom tasted sweet: like pork and rice and cheap beer.

  I hadn’t really noticed I’d drifted out of the conversation, feeling too high on all that was happening around me, until Nico spoke to me.

  “I still think you should sue the state.”

  When I met his eye, he shrugged and took a swig of beer. “It was a wrongful conviction. You’ve got a good shot at winning a case.”

  “Nico,” I started, but he was insistent. I wondered how long he’d been waiting to say it.

  “I talked to Tristan,” Nico added. “He said he thinks you could get about a good three million. That’s enough to start over, tío. Make a new life for yourself.”

  He was right. The money was tempting. And, considering my newfound status as convicted-turned-wrongfully-convicted killer, Worthington didn’t exactly look at me with a kind eye. It didn’t matter if I did it or not to some people; in their eyes, I would always be guilty. Another criminal who got away.

  The thought of it turned my stomach.

  I knew I was innocent. The people I cared about knew I was innocent. That was all that mattered.

  “I’d rather move on with my life.” I shook my head slowly, setting my emptied plate of seconds on the porch by my feet. “Put all that behind me. That part of my life is over. Besides….” and I nodded out at the sunset, finally disappeared behind the ridge of the mountains. Overhead, it was a cloudless night, and the stars were out in full. “The suit would be too expensive if we didn’t win. I can’t put Tristan through that. Can’t ask him to… take that risk for me.”

  “Three million’s a lot, though,” Nico mumbled, as if I didn’t know that.

  It wasn’t just about the money. The thought of ever stepping back into a courtroom again—stuffy and with everyone’s eyes watching and judging, the court of public opinion always against you, and bailiffs with handcuffs ready to take you away at the drop of a gavel—I wasn’t too keen on the idea. If I could live my life without ever having to go near another judicial building again, it’d still be too soon.

  “I appreciate it, sobrino bebé,” I said, grinning a little at the reaction the nickname got. Sobrino bebé: baby nephew. “But, I’m just looking to get back to normal. All of the wrongful convictions, that’s….” I thumbed over the label of my beer, willing myself to believe what I was saying. “That’s in the past.”

  Landon nodded and held his beer out in a gesture, expression warm. “Well, cheers to that, brother.”

  We all took a sip. I polished mine off, huffing once I’d dredged all the foam. It probably tasted a little like piss, but I hadn’t had a drink in years, so to me it was practically liquid gold.

  “Want another one?” Landon laughed.

  I might have felt a little sheepish if I wasn’t feeling so good. “Nah. Thanks, though,” I said, and he took all of our empty bottles before heading inside, promising he’d bring back another round for himself and Nico.

  “Oh,” I said, because it seemed relevant and changed the subject, “speaking of getting shit back to normal, I’m supposed to be down at the Dyer Ranch tomorrow morning.”

  It was just me keeping my nephew updated, but he seemed to perk up, something about what I said catching his interest. “Right. What time is that?”

  “Around nine. Nine-thirty.” I nodded to him. “Who am I meeting again?”

  “Quinn. Quinn Dyer.”

  “Right. Quinn.” I remembered him, though his face wasn’t the clearest in my memory. “It’s going to be nice. Working again—honest work.” It might have seemed dull to some, but clocking in, doing some physical labor, clocking out, and earning an honest wage sounded like a slice of heaven to me. “I’ll make sure to tell him I’m grateful he’s talking to me—and I owe you the same. He’s your friend. I don’t think I would have gotten any kind
of connection without you, so….”

  Nico nodded, but when he smiled it didn’t light up his whole face.

  Something was off.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Qué?” Nico ran a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing, I just… I’m worried that Quinn might not be able to hire anyone.”

  Oh. I smothered the flicker of disappointment that rose up in my chest; it was easy to do by now, with years of practice under my belt. “Right. I understand.”

  “I mean, he’s gonna talk to you. Honestly, the ranch needs all the help it can get, but the place has been suffering lately. Like, really in the pits, you know?” Nico seemed worried.

  “What’s in the pits?” Landon’s voice boomed, his footsteps heavy as he came out of the house, bottles dinging against each other as he passed them around.

  “The Dyers’ ranch?” I said.

  Landon whistled to himself, as if it was a well-known fact. “It’s because of his mom. It’s not her fault, but she’s getting older; been getting sicker and sicker. I don’t really know what’s going on with her myself—all the details and everything—but…. Word is that they’re not doing too hot because of it. And that’s after the stuff they went through a few years back, lost a lot of cattle or something.”

  I opened my bottle. The cap fell noisily at my feet. “Well, I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Even if he can’t hire me, I’ll be happy to talk to him.”

  It was definitely disappointing, but I tried to remind myself of the positives: I wasn’t in prison, and there was always the chance of this Quinn Dyer telling others I was looking for work. A handyman by trade, word of mouth was always better than nothing at all.

  “There’s, uh….” Nico made a face as he looked from me to Landon, and back again. “There’s one other thing. About Quinn.”

  I nodded once, a sign for him to continue.

  “He’s got a….” Nico made a meaningless gesture with his hand. “A thing. For older guys. Especially ones who are kind of macho, you know? Rough and tumble?”

  I could take a hint. “Yeah.”

  “You know what daddies are, right?” Nico asked, and Landon and I both made faces before laughing loudly.

  “I know of them, yeah,” I huffed.

  The idea was almost laughable, though there was a little knot of anxiety, always would be, when talking about shit like this. I nodded.

  Landon held up a hand. “He’s not completely clueless, though,” and when he spoke, he was much more mild. “Just be frank with him, and he’ll get the message.”

  I sat back and considered it. I had put up with much more than flirting in the past; clamping down on the strange feeling thinking about it brought up in my chest, I sat up straighter and cracked my knuckles.

  “Well,” I groaned, stretching my arms over my head, “being frank is an issue for tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t something to be concerned about now, I told myself. Like Nico and Landon said: a firm assertion that I wasn’t interested would be enough, if anything came up at all. I doubted it would. Whatever anxiety I felt about it—that literal pit that would sometimes carve itself into my chest—was thoroughly numbed by the time I stood from my porch chair and exchanged a hearty handshake with Landon.

  “Turning in for the night?” he asked.

  “Yup. Bright and early.”

  Nico grinned up at me. “At 9:00 a.m.”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked out over the expanse of country. The night was calm. I’d forgotten how peaceful it could be.

  “I’m going to need one of you to drive me home,” I finally said, glancing at the couple, nestled sweetly in their side-by-side seats. Without the age difference, in the dim porch light, their outlines looked kind of like an old married couple.

  Landon grinned; Nico laughed loudly.

  “What’s the matter, tío?” Nico hummed, lifting his beer in a half-salute. “A couple of beers got you bit in the ass already?”

  I shot him a wry look, ruffling his hair, which earned a grunt. Nico brushed my hand away.

  “No. Thanks for asking.” I turned to Landon, the more responsible of the two. “No driver’s license.”

  “Ah.” Landon made a sound of understanding, hefting himself up out of the comfy seat. He handed Nico his half-drunk bottle. “Take care of that for me, will you?”

  “Sure thing.” Nico was already drinking the rest of it.

  “You good to drive?” I asked, and Landon patted me on the shoulder as he led the way into the house.

  “Yessir.” He disappeared into the house, and returned a moment later, the ring of his key spinning around on his finger. “Ready?”

  I pointed to Nico, and he mimicked the gesture, the both of us giving one another a teasingly stern look. “Hey,” I said.

  And he echoed it. “Hey.”

  “Thank you guys for dinner. And beer.” Turning to Landon, I rubbed the back of my neck. “I needed a night like this. Just… relaxing.”

  Landon grinned, traipsing down the front steps. “You know you’re welcome anytime, Oliver.”

  I followed closely on the way to his truck, and then I took a deep breath, rolling the windows down. The wind was clean and cool. Tomorrow held the promise of a new job, a second chance at living a free life.

  I was ready for it.

  I was ready to restart.

  2

  Quinn

  It was going worse than I imagined.

  When the doctor stepped out of my mother’s bedroom, he seemed real bothered, shutting the door respectfully behind him before sighing. I crossed my arms tight over my chest; not a good sign, I thought, before he opened his mouth and started talking.

  “Quinn,” he said, tongue-tied somewhere between sounding frustrated and apologetic. “We’re at the limit of what we can do here. At home. We really….”

  He sighed again. It was my educated guess that my mother was probably one of the most difficult patients he’d ever had, and one of the few he had to make actual house calls for. It was nearly a thirty-minute drive from the simple building he practiced out of, way on the other side of town, so I was grateful.

  “Doc?” I asked, already knowing full well what he was about to say. It was the same thing he’d been saying for a while now.

  “We really need to get Tilly to a hospital.” His voice wasn’t as firm as the first couple times he’d told us that. Even with my mother on the other side of that door, snug in her bed, it was like he was nervous about the wrath such a suggestion might incur from her.

  “Yeah, well, she isn’t too keen on going. My mother’s a stubborn one—”

  The doctor nearly snorted. “Oh, I am aware.”

  I grinned. Honestly, saying she was just plain stubborn was the understatement of the century. But she wasn’t without good reason.

  “It’s the hospital bills, Doc, you know that.” I gave a half-roll of my eyes, the smile not really reaching into it anymore as I glanced at her bedroom door. It was white and chipping, in need of a fresh coat of paint—in fact, this whole place could use a good once-over. “She doesn’t want to bog all us down with her medical bills. Good care costs good money, and she doesn’t want to feel like a burden.”

  I could understand that, as frustrating as it was to deal with.

  “The only person she’ll listen to is you, Quinn.” I nodded slowly as the doctor gave my shoulder a hearty pat. “Will you?”

  “I….” Shit. Holding my breath, I stood up a little taller, heading for her bedroom. I knocked once, a courtesy to let her know I was coming in, before pushing the door back and slipping inside.

  Looking at her straight-on, she seemed all right. With a head full of bright hair, big eyes, and all her teeth, you might not have even known she was sick. Of course, if you knew her before, seeing her lounging around in a bed would have been a dead giveaway that something wasn’t right.

  “Quinn,” she said, like she was happy to see someone other than the doctor.

  “He
y, mama.” I pulled an old wicker chair up to her bedside. It was a piece that had been around since I was little, probably older than me. I never thought to ask about it. It crunched as I sat in it. “How you feeling?”

  “All’s good, ‘cept my heart.”

  We both grinned; it wasn’t really funny, but laughter was the best medicine, I guess.

  “Yeah, well… if we only knew what was wrong with it.”

  Watching my mom’s face twist in concern really… sucked. “Doc doesn’t know?”

  With a shake of my head, I told her, “No, not without the proper tools, mama. He can only do so much with a stethoscope.”

  “Well, shoot, he oughta come in here and tell me that himself.” She was getting a little more indignant, turning her head and squinting out the little gap between the door and its frame. The doctor was watching, listening to us, probably shitting himself over the idea of being called back in here by the great Tilda “Tilly” Dyer herself.

  He didn’t come in. Not that I blamed him.

  “Mama.” I took her hand, her attention turning back to me. “We gotta get you to a hospital. Officially—”

  She sucked her teeth and looked away, like all the world was crazy, except her. “It’s too expensive.”

  “Mama—”

  “I ain’t going, Quinn. The family can’t handle that kinda debt. The ranch couldn’t survive with that kinda debt on its back, either. Once it’s there, it never goes away, believe you me—”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  The room was tense. She was nervous. When my mother was nervous, she wasn’t shy about anything; instead, her jaw set real tight, like she was getting ready to decide whether or not to kiss you or slap you.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, drawing my hand out of hers. Big breath, I told myself. Just say it. “Mama, I think we oughta sell the ranch—”

  “Out of the question.”

  “It’d pay for the bills,” I insisted. “We could get good money for it, and—”

  “We are not selling this ranch, Quinn Dyer, if it is the last thing I do, so help me—”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the last thing you did,” I told her with a little huff. I hated talking to her like this. “That’s kind of the point.”